


... And Then There Was One / Vigil

by KatScratches



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatScratches/pseuds/KatScratches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius, during OotP, and then Remus, after the Veil incident. Two separate stories, but -- much like Sirius & Remus -- two halves of a whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	... And Then There Was One / Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> Not new fics, sorry. I've been transferring from my LJ. If you've not read them before, I do hope you enjoy! :)

**... And Then There Was One**

He's never here.

Never, never, _never_ here, and here is where I need him.

"Work for the Order," he says, and I can't fail to miss the slight note of chiding in his tone. The Order, the Order, always the bloody Order. It takes all his time, time he should be spending with me. He should be with me; we're the last.

Last, last, last.

And I can't even help him with his work. Not allowed. No one will let me. Locked in, sealed in, held back. Caged.

"You know you can't leave the house, Sirius," they all say. "What if you were seen?"

Seen? Who cares if I'm seen? I want out, out, _out_ of this crypt, this mausoleum, this carnival of horrors with its cursed artifacts and screaming portraits, and all the godforsaken memories I've tried unsuccessfully to drown.

"Put it away, Sirius," he says, wearily taking the firewhisky bottle from me again and again and again. "And stop the bloody pacing."

Of course I pace; isn't that what caged animals do? Like those pitiful creatures in Muggle zoos - lions and tigers and escaped Azkaban prisoners, oh my!

He takes my wrists firmly in his worn hands and forces my frenetic pacing to grind to a halt.

"Sirius," he says quietly. "Go to bed. Please."

"Come with me," I say. Something flickers deep in his eyes but I can almost see the mental foot that squashes the thought.

"But," he amends, "I'll tuck you in."

I change to Padfoot, slipping easily out of his grasp to bound up the stairs ahead of him, tail wagging madly. He shakes his head and follows me.

It's become our ritual, you see. Full of pretense and false promises as all good rituals are meant to be. 

I long for him to throw me down and fuck me into oblivion, mattress springs squeaking and creaking for all they're worth. I ache to feel him grind possessively into me, desperate and passionate, skin against skin.

And I know he wants it too.

For we're the last.

We were meant to be together till the end.

But every night - the nights he is here, at least - he tucks the covers chastely around me and makes me promise to stay in bed.

I don't even get a goodnight kiss.

Day after day after night after night makes the words come automatically while the air in this room grows feral with stale desire.

"G'night, Moony."

"Goodnight, Padfoot."

Occasionally we hear from Harry, first by owl and then by fire. It breaks my heart in a thousand shards to look at him, Lily's eyes in James' face, almost blasphemous that he should be alive while they are gone. Cruel that he will never truly know, never ever completely understand how incredible they are.

_Were_.

I knew that. I _did_.

I'm very careful to remember Harry's name. Molly thinks I've confused him with James, and sometimes I think I do, but I'd never admit it to her. I'd sound mad. Perhaps I am, a little. Molly certainly thinks so. But who could spend a dozen years in wizard prison and come out completely sane?

But I love him to distraction, this godson of mine, and if nothing else I will keep him safe, keep him in my fierce protection, such as it is.

"Remus, there has to be _something_ I can do for the Order."

He doesn't even look up from his book as he tells me to stop pacing.

He just doesn't get it.

He doesn't get that I need to gather those I love close around me, wrap myself in them like a cloak, never let them stray far from me. He doesn't get that I will never let those things be taken from me again. Love. Security.

Freedom.

That's a joke, that is. What freedom? Out, out, I need out, I need air, need to run and yell -

_"Sirius, stop bloody pacing!"_

He slams his book down in irritation, then stands up so fast that he catches his foot in the frayed edge of the rug, losing his balance.

I catch him.

Almost.

I sprawl gracelessly across him on the rug, by turns apologizing and laughing and worrying aloud.

"Sirius, I'm fine," he says between bouts of helpless laughter. I don't care if he's laughing at me; I just love to hear him laugh. "Get off me," he says. "Let me up."

So of course I kiss him instead.

His eyes widen in shock and I pull away when it sinks in that he is not kissing me back, cursing myself silently and vehemently. There could never be enough words to make this better.

Then his hands snake up around my neck, twining into my hair, and before I realize that he isn't angry but is actually quite the opposite, he is kissing me.

It's like a dam has broken between us, like every silly romantic Muggle notion of fireworks, or riding off into the sunset. There aren't words; there isn't room for words, but who could speak at a time like this? Each fevered kiss, each frantic touch - we can't get enough of each other. It's been so long since anyone has touched me with such exquisite care that I nearly don't know how to respond in kind.

And when I do tentatively touch him, the joy that suffuses his features is like the dawn breaking, like waves colliding with the shore. He gasps my name and the hand he has clutched in my hair is almost painful but I don't care, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but that Remus is kissing me again.

Remus. Is kissing. Me.

I moan into his mouth as I grind relentlessly against his hip, delirious with the way he sighs and shudders beneath me. He gasps my name again, bucking hard against my hand, and it sends me over the edge.

_Scourgify_ is such a helpful little spell at times like these.

And every night, and every day after, I tell him without words that he is the center of my universe.

Sometimes I use the words too, fragile syllables that I fear may shatter if I use them too often. For everyone I love seems to leave me, and I know I couldn't bear it if Remus left me.

I take every _I love you_ he bestows on me and carry them in a secret pocket of my heart, treasures beyond worth or measure.

I don't pace as much.

"Come on," he says roughly one evening. "You're coming too this time."

"Where?" I say stupidly. I haven't left this awful house in so long that I've nearly forgotten there exists an outside world.

"Department of Mysteries," he says shortly. "Harry's in danger. His friends, too."

I'm scared. Scared for Harry, scared for Remus, scared for myself if I should have to live without either of them.

We race through the Department of Mysteries, flanked by other members of the Order. Tonks, for once, doesn't fall over anything, and it amazes me. Everything, lately, seems to amaze me.

I grab Remus by the collar of his cloak as a shiver courses through me.

"I love you," I whisper fiercely against his lips. "I love you."

"I know," he grins, "and I love _you_. And we'll have all the time in the world after this battle."

"Together?"

"Together."

We burst in on the Death Eaters in a flurry of hexes and spells, cloaks and curses flying, people falling - Tonks is down - where's Harry? - where's Remus? - where? -

I raise my borrowed wand jubilantly high as I easily duck Bellatrix's Stunning spell.

"Come on!" I yell at my cousin. I'm delirious to be out, to be free, to be useful at last. No Death Eater, least of all Bella, will ever get Harry or Remus while I'm around. "Come on, you can do better than that!"

And then she does.

 

**Vigil**

He goes back to the house because it's the only place to which he can conceivably go.

Memories assault him from a thousand angles but they slide off him nearly as quickly as the tentative words spoken to him by his friends. By the Order. Ever courteous, ever cautious.

For he is numb.

And numb is good.

Numb means he doesn't have to feel, to think, to remember.

He lies in bed and the pillows do not smell faintly of dog, nor of firewhisky. There is no long black hair caught in the weave of the blanket. He does not see it; he does not need to, for he is numb.

For if he did chance to see that lone hair, he might remember from whose head it fell, might recall how it came to be caught there... and he might no longer be numb.

So: there is no hair caught roughly among the woolen fibres, just as there is no tumbler beside the bed, two fingerprints smudged near the rim. And in the bottom of this glass that is not there, there is also no remnant of firewhisky, nor memory of the curve of lips against the glass.

No smoky laughter echoes from the corners of the room.

There is also no black t-shirt slung carelessly over a chair on the far side of the room, no shirt not smelling faintly of hippogriff.

He closes his eyes, feigns sleep till it reluctantly comes.

He does not dream of shadowed eyes, nor of a bitter laugh sounding more like a bark. 

He does not dream of great black dogs, nor running free on moonlit nights. He does not dream of stone arches, nor tattered veils, nor falling.

Even his dreams are numb.

In the wee hours of the morning, he awakens abruptly but does not automatically reach for a warmth that should be there but isn't. He remembers to be numb.

Eventually he steals down to the kitchen for a cup of tea, cradling it in hands that do not tremble. It tastes of nothing, like his dreams.

After a time, Molly comes in, ostensibly to fix breakfast. He wonders why her eyes are so red, wonders for whom she has been weeping.

"Oh, Remus," she hiccoughs, patting his shoulder awkwardly.

He does not understand her look of ragged pity and so ignores it. He does not waste time thinking about it; he is busy being numb.

As other members of the Order begin to wander in and out of the kitchen, he places his empty mug in the sink and politely excuses himself.

It's hard work, being numb, and they are distracting him, especially when they speak so cryptically of being sorry for some incident in the Department of Mysteries. He does not allow himself to think of the Department of Mysteries; it is not part of being numb.

Back in his room, he stares out the window for hours, unseeing, his fingers lazily tracing S-shapes on the dusty sill.


End file.
